


The Adventure Of The Knuckle-Duster (1890)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [121]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poison, Prostitution, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A curious case is rather more than it appears, resulting in an unusual poisoning attempt and, for John, an unwelcome face from the past. Although he is definitely, absolutely not jealous, whatever anyone says.And someone can stop smirking RIGHT NOW!





	The Adventure Of The Knuckle-Duster (1890)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the Mathews case'.

Apart from some well-loved 'regulars' like Mrs. Harvelle and our friend Victor Henriksen, most people involved in Sherlock's cases came, saw and passed. A small number, however, appeared more than once in our adventures – I think immediately of the dreadful Mrs. Margaret Masters, without whom we could have done very well, and on a more recent and darker note, Professor James Moriarty – and this case brought two more people from our past back into our lives. One was welcome, the other (even if he did provide valuable assistance at a difficult time) somewhat less so. And yes, this case also brought out a less than admirable facet of my own character. We are all human, after all. 

Except, I am sure, Mrs. Margaret Masters and Professor James Moriarty.

+~+~+

It was August, little more than a month after Sherlock's 'triumph' in the case of the Red-Headed League. We were, I hoped, set to be granted a brief respite from our ongoing struggles against the vile Professor James Moriarty, as the man had gone abroad for a month to attend a funeral somewhere in Italy (unfortunately not his own). Hopefully he would be travelling somewhere near an erupting volcano or unexpected avalanche, I thought sourly, though I doubted that we could be that fortunate. And I knew that the effort of combating this vile piece of human excrement was draining on my poor friend, so any chance for a rest was more than welcome. 

We could not, of course, be that lucky, although on reflection, I suppose that we were fortunate to come out of what was about to befall us in one piece. Indeed, it was Sherlock's innate generosity that repaid itself in spades, and it all began with the telegram that he received that first morning.

“It is from Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson”, he said, surprised. “He says that one of his 'boys' has acquired some information about a potential threat against me, and wishes to communicate it to me as a matter of urgency. He asks that this 'Larry' – Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, to give him his proper title – should call on me this morning.”

I yawned and glared at him. It was one of the few downsides of our current sleeping arrangements that, very rarely, he would be unable to settle and spend hours clambering all over me like I was some sort of climbing frame, before inevitably ending up with my larger framed 'spooned' around his smaller one. Only on a very few and exceedingly rare occasions did the reverse happen, and even then, I only allowed myself to be what no-one who wanted to avoid being hit very hard would have called 'the little spoon'. Because it so seldom happened. Almost never, in fact.

Sherlock seemed to be having some sort of coughing fit. I stared at him suspiciously – he had better not be doing that mind-reading thing of his again – but he downed yet another coffee and wrote a quick note, then rang the bell for a maid. One came, and his message was dispatched. If he even thought about smirking....

“What can it be about?” I wondered, still watching him carefully. The molly-house owner was the brother of the tide-waiter who had provided the last case during our 'Grand Tour' (and, I thought with a particularly warm memory, one Mr. Gaylord Holmes with a sudden and deserved termination of his then employment), and Sherlock had, as I said before, helped him with his mother's subsequent visit so that she had not found out his true vocation. 

“I only know, because Mr. Godreyson once told me, that this 'Larry' is the person that he is training up to take over his business when he retires”, Sherlock said. “And that the fellow is relatively young; he said that he wanted someone he could mould to follow his ways, rather than someone who would have ideas about changing things that did not need changing.”

“And doubtless he is handsome”, I said, not at all sourly. 

I wished the words unsaid as soon as they were out of my mouth. A slow smile creased my friend's handsome features. Damnation!

“Doctor John Watson”, he smirked. “Are you _jealous?_ ”

“No!” I said, in what may or may not have been a rather high-pitched voice. I took a breath before continuing. “I have you now.”

Lord, I sounded like the possessive wife in one of those God-awful melodramas again! I hid behind my newspaper, and thankfully he did not press the matter. What a relief!

Some day. Some day, I would catch a break. But today was not to be that day.

+~+~+

It was little more than an hour later that our visitor was announced, and rather unusually, Mrs. Harvelle showed up this 'Larry' (and it was quite unbecoming of her to do that fake swooning thing, I felt). He was not that good-looking, after all, and.....

Hell and damnation, no way could my luck be this bad! 'Larry' was none other than Lowen, the Cornish fisherman who had ferried us to and from Annet in the Scilly Isles during the Repellent Philanthropist case some eleven years ago. He had filled out since then – all muscle, worse luck - and he still had the same clear blue eyes, handsome features and, worst of all, leering look when it came to _my_ Sherlock.

Mrs. Harvelle left us (with a final and totally unbecoming simper for someone of her social standing), and our unwanted guest took the fireside chair opposite Sherlock. I forwent my usual place at the table, and instead stood right behind Sherlock's chair, awkward though that was for my writing, and pointedly placed my ring hand on his shoulder. I may have coughed rather deeply, in a way that an uncharitable person might just possibly have taken for a defensive growl. And even though he was facing the same direction as me, I could feel someone's smirk, damn him!

“I assure you, doctor, I know not to touch what belongs to someone else”, our guest smiled, and I noted that his Cornish accent had almost completely vanished. “Besides, I am here to hopefully save your 'friend' from a potential danger.”

“It is good to see you again”, Sherlock smiled, as I did not glare crossly at our unwanted guest, and pointedly did not hear someone's only partly-suppressed snigger. “Pray, what brings you here today?”

I gave him one last look before taking my usual place at the table. The fact that he was some nine years younger than myself, in moderately fair physical condition and arguably better-looking in a certain light was neither here nor there, and the both of them could stop with the smirking at my perfectly reasonable behaviour right now!

“I had a client the other day”, our unwelcome visitor said. “A Mr. Morton Mathews. I had to go to his house, which was a little unusual, but Sweyn is always careful about such things. We did what he wanted, and as it was late in the evening, he subsequently fell asleep. He had paid beforehand as is the pracice, so I knew to let myself out.”

“I suppose that it was wrong of me to pry, but I am unfortunately curious about my clients' personal lives. Before leaving, I checked out his bookshelf. He had some decidedly varied choices of literature, and there seemed rather a lot of books on poisons, and methods of killing without being detected. That chilled me somewhat, and I decided to leave.”

“As you can see from the address” - he placed a card on the small table - “the house fronts out onto a busy main road where omnibuses pass frequently. Because of both this and the late hour, I decided to leave through the back door. On my way there however, I discovered something rather worrisome, which is why I am here today. There was a small room, and inside it someone had set up some sort of chemical laboratory. I did not of course recognize any of the solutions that were there, but two things struck me as significant. The first was a knuckle-duster, which seemed strangely out of place in such an environment. And the second was a newspaper, with an article on the front page having been ringed.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. “That article, sir, was about your good self.”

“You think that this 'Mr. Morton Mathews' is coming after me?” Sherlock asked. Our guest nodded.

“Unfortunately I could not stay to investigate further”, he said, “as I heard a noise from upstairs that suggested my client was awakening. I left as quickly as possible, and alerted Sweyn so that we might warn you.”

“We thank you for being so considerate”, Sherlock smiled. “”Do we not, doctor?”

I grunted my assent.

+~+~+

Why did I have to end up with the man with the loudest smirk in London Town?

“Stop it!” I grumbled.

“Stop what?” he asked innocently. I glared at him.

“You know what”, I scowled (it was not a pout). “That Adonis was only after one thing back in Cornwall, and now he is here in London of all places!”

“That 'Adonis', as you so rightly call him, was quite charming”, Sherlock smiled. “And I am sure that he will do very well when Mr. Godfreyson retires. It was a pleasure doing business with him.”

“Harrumph!”

+~+~+

I was feeling resentful at the Ad.... the ex-fisherman's return all day, and Sherlock's not-smirking made matters worse. I was dreading bed that night, and unusually, he kept his distance from me once he had joined me.

“I am sorry that you think so little of me, John”, he said quietly. “That you think I could be won over by a pretty face, a handsome body, a kind nature, a....”

“ _Not_ helping!” I snapped. He chuckled, and I turned to look at him. In the dim moonlight he seemed more beautiful than ever, whilst I... I was two and half years older than him, but feeling more like twelve and a half older.

“I have you”, he said simply. “A great heart, a manly face, a muscular body, a generous nature – that is all mine. Mine and no-one else's. We will not always be young, friend – indeed, if this business with Moriarty turns out ill, I may never be old....”

I shuddered at that.

“But if and when we do make old bones, we will be two grumpy old men, scandalizing the neighbours with our affections and kisses long after we have passed the age when the younger generation would think us to have grown out of it. We can almost picture their eye-rolls now!”

It was an appealing picture. A cottage somewhere in the country, just me and him and no more dangers. Some day, I thought, just maybe. I wrapped myself around him and sighed. He did care for me, really.

Then he had to go and ruin it all.

“But I suppose that he was pretty, and handsome, and....”

“Shut up!”

The bastard sniggered, but said no more.

+~+~+

The next development in this case was more than a little unexpected. I returned from a day at the surgery to find that 221B had acquired something new. Several bullet-holes. I was more than a little alarmed.

“It is all right, doctor”, Miss Harvelle reassured me, coming out of her mother's rooms. “We had an unwelcome visitor today, and Mother had to bring out the rifle.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked.

“He dropped two of his cards as he fled”, she said. “A Mr. Morton Mathews.”

I froze.

“What happened?” I asked anxiously.

“He told Betty that he needed to see Mr. Holmes, and that he did not wish to be announced”, she said. “Mother heard the commotion and came out, and caught him starting up the stairs. When he refused her request to stop, she let him have it in the backside.”

I winced. Mrs. Harvelle used a low-powered rifle with shot that aimed to injure rather than kill, but several small bullets down there... ouch! I mounted the stairs to find my friend.

Who was looking in less than perfect shape. I frowned.

“What has happened to you?” I asked. 

“I went to Charing Cross Station this morning”, he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because after his visit here, I knew that this Mr. Mathews wished to make an attempt on my life, and I wanted him to have the opportunity so to do.”

I stared at him in shock.

“You were taking a terrible risk!” I scolded. “And what has happened to your face?”

“As I expected, he punched me in the face”, Sherlock said. “With rather more force that I expected; I seem to be minus a left canine. But against the cost of saving my life, it is a small price to pay. Are you hungry?”

I blinked at the apparent _non sequitur_.

“Well, a bit”, I admitted. 

“I fancy a dinner at that restaurant that serves extra-thick bacon, over in Kensington”, he said. “And we shall be able to call on Mr. Mathews on the way there, and bring this case to a conclusion.”

I stared at him in confusion.

+~+~+

Mr. Morton Mathews lived in a far higher-class residence than I would have thought, in one of the best parts of a decent borough. His house was small, but well-situated, and about the only bad thing about it was the busy road in front that the Ad... that that dratted ex-fisherman had told us about.

If there was even a hint of a smirk, then _someone_ was sleeping alone tonight!

Judging from the reaction of the man who answered the door, and who stared at Sherlock in utter confusion, that had to be our quarry.

“We shall not detain you long”, Sherlock said, whilst I wished that he had warned me to bring my gun. “May we come in?”

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Mathews asked suspiciously. “You should be dead!”

“Ah yes, your knuckle-duster”, Sherlock said. “It packs quite a punch, possibly more than I expected. You coated the outer parts of it with a deadly poison, so that anyone hit and grazed by it would have that poison enter their bloodstream, and be dead in a matter of hours.”

“How the hell could you know that?” the man demanded.

For the first time, I noticed how pale he was. I wondered if it was because of Mrs. Harvelle's unerring aim from earlier; I had noticed that he was staggering slightly as he stood in the doorway.

“Because I made sure that you knew I would be at the station”, Sherlock said mildly. “I lost a tooth. You, Mr. Mathews, are about to lose rather more.”

The man looked as if he was about to say something, but seemed unable. He sank down onto one knee, looking even paler.

“You would not want to confront me near a policeman”, Sherlock said, “so I borrowed one of my policeman friend's constables to take with me to the station. Whilst you were watching us, you did not notice another of my acquaintances remove the knuckle-duster from your pocket – she really is the most excellent sneak-thief, by the way – and replace it with another one. Similar in almost all aspects to your own – except that in this one, the poison, which she extracted from your house last night, was coated on the _inside_.”

The man fell completely to the floor, looking up piteously at us. I felt precisely nothing for him. He deserved the Hell he was surely going to very soon.

“It really has not been the best of days for you”, Sherlock said soothingly. “Still, at least you did not also encounter the landlady's daughter, who has deterred the attentions of more than one young gentleman by providing free demonstrations of her knife collection. We shall be leaving.”

He glared at us from his prone position, but was unable to do anything. As Sherlock pulled the door shut, I heard what was almost certainly his dying breath. I suppose that I should have hastened to do what I could for him, but Sherlock had mentioned the name of the poison to me on our way over, and I knew that there was no cure once it had entered the system. Mr. Mathews would have the same death that he had wished to visit on my friend, and Hell was welcome to him!

+~+~+

“You still exposed yourself to unnecessary danger”, I scolded as we walked to his restaurant. 

“I must, in my line of work”, he said. “Besides, I chose this restaurant not just for myself, but for you.”

I stared at him suspiciously.

“To make up for all the bacon that you take from me every morning?” I asked.

“I do not take it”, he said primly. “You give it to me.”

“Only because you look like the most abused mate in the history of humanity if I do not!” I scoffed. “And you know I can never refuse me when you look at me in that way of yours.”

“What way is that, John?” he asked innocently.

I just glared at him.

We had reached the restaurant, and he pointed across the road.

“A new bakery”, he said. “And they sell six different types of pie!”

All right, I suppose that there was some small reason why I kept him around.

+~+~+

Next, the dark story of the “Matilda Briggs” and the Giant Rat of Sumatra. And I come to do something I will bitterly live to regret.


End file.
